Sometimes This Journey is Too Much for Us

I'm so thankful for the people in our church: a place where we humans share our sorrow and joy.  Pastor David has a gift for preaching, for sharing stories, for bringing us along, for providing words and deeds that are salve for our wounds.  God's comfort is shared in community.  Healing and hope result.

Today the sermon was about this earthly journey being too much for us.  From 1 Kings 19, David spoke about Elijah: "while he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness. He came to a broom bush, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. “I have had enough, LORD,” he said. “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.”  Sometimes this journey is too much for us. 

The son of a couple in our church was stillborn on July 10.  An amazing woman of faith, who has lived a full, rich, servant life recently died unexpectedly.  Sometimes this journey is too much for us. 

People hurt.  People suffer.  We stumble along this journey, experiencing its stellar joys and deep sorrows.   Sometimes this journey is too much for us.

So many children are in foster care.  Birthparents lose parental rights.  Children age out of foster care with no family of their own.  Children spent birthdays and Christmases alone.  Some children do not even have their own pair of cozy pajamas.  Sometimes this journey is too much for us. 

So many parents do not have support, money, resources to support a child, so they make an adoption plan for their flesh and blood.  They live with that relinquishment.  Sometimes this journey is too much for us. 

We have miscarriages.  We have still births.  We are matched with a child/family; the match falls through.  We wait gracefully.  We wait without any patience at all.  We wait.  And wait.  And wait.

This is an achingly beautiful, broken, blessed life.  Sometimes this journey is too much for us. 

But the story doesn't end there.  "All at once an angel touched him [Elijah] and said, “Get up and eat.” ⁶ He looked around, and there by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and a jar of water. He ate and drank and then lay down again.  ⁷ The angel of the LORD came back a second time and touched him and said, “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” ⁸ So he got up and ate and drank. Strengthened by that food, he traveled forty days and forty nights until he reached Horeb, the mountain of God."

Thank God we live in a community that cares for and supports others.  I'm thankful for sustenance.  For bread and water on this journey.  I'm thankful for shared strength.  I'm thankful for other families waiting to adopt and for families that have already adopted.  I'm thankful for friends and family that listen, ask and care.  Together we provide comfort, hope and sustenance.  Bread and water for this journey. 

It's true.  Sometimes this journey is too much for us.  I remember that I just have to face today.  And we are not alone.

Songs for Sorrow

Recently I have been holding my own little memorials by listening to these songs from the Twilight Saga: Eclipse soundtrack.  It came out last year at this time and I saw Eclipse at least four times in the theater.  By myself.

Heavy in Your Arms by Florence and the Machine
Chop and Change by The Black Keys
and With you in My Head by UNKLE

It's true; they may not sound like memorial songs.  The movie and music helped me escape or experience my searing pain, anger and sorrow, depending on what I needed at the time.

And lately I sing this song to myself frequently: Precious Lord Take My Hand.

This may sound incongruous, but that's the story of the human experience.  Well, it's the story of mine, anyway.

Last year at this time Kevin and I were:
Worried
Excited
PREGNANT.

One year ago yesterday our baby died.  I floated in the deepest ocean of sorrow.  Her name is Lily.  She lived a short time, but our hopes and dreams for her were beyond measure.  She would have been five months old right now.

And her other sister that went to heaven far too early would now be 1 1/2; her name is Eva (eh-vah).

Some people call them angel babies.  All I know is that they were our children.  And I know it is the purest love.

I'm thankful.
I remember.
I'm pensive about what could have been.